


Silk Touch

by amerrierworld



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Haircuts, a mention of game of thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amerrierworld/pseuds/amerrierworld
Summary: From a tumblr prompt: imagine giving Thorin a trim to even up his ends.
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 40





	Silk Touch

“This is a disgrace,” he hissed.

“Oh, hush,” you retorted, pulling the chair to the middle of the room. “It’s just a trim.”

The Medusa-like scowl he sent you through the mirror’s reflection was enough to turn you to stone. Agitated, you put a hand on the back of the chair and spun around to face him.

“Forgive me for being honest, my liege, but as I recall you came to _me_ asking for help on this task.”

You bit back more harsh words as a shimmer of uncertainty seemed to dawn over Thorin.

“Are you certain I cannot simply leave it?” he asked, eyeing his hair in the mirror. Your gaze softened and you gestured for him to sit down in the chair.

“Dead ends are dead ends, Thorin. I know Dwarves are proud of their hair, but a simple trim never did anyone harm. In fact, it’ll only make it grow longer, and by the time the feast arrives in a couple of weeks, it’ll have grown back.”

He simply let out a _hmph_ in response as he lowered himself in the chair, sitting quite tall and on edge. You put your hands reassuringly on his shoulders and gave him an encouraging smile in the mirror.

“I’ll be careful, I promise.”

He sighed and shut his eyes. “Just be done with it.”

His hair, already wet from a previous bath you had instructed him to take, hung in loose and damp waves over his shoulders, dripping on the floor by your feet.

“Just be glad you’re not Dothraki,” you mumbled as you grabbed your scissors.

He raised an eyebrow and opened his eyes as you teasingly made the scissors sound _snip snip_ near his ear.

“The what?”

“Dothraki. A race in a series of books back home. They’ve got a tradition that whenever they lose a battle, they cut their hair. Someone with long hair is considered undefeatable, to put it simply.”

Thorin made a sound in the back of his throat as a hum of recognition and you could sense him tensing as you ran a hand through the locks.

“Relax,” you said as you put the scissors down. “I’m gonna brush it first okay?”

The bristly brush you ran through his hair wasn’t the best quality. But his mane definitely was. With each stroke of the brush, his raven hair would glisten with moisture in the candlelight, silver and black strands standing out brightly in contrast. He had once again closed his eyes, clearly enjoying the feeling as your fingers pulled through the strands as well.

Your heart beat began to quicken, although you weren’t sure why. You put the brush back to the side and proceeded to calm his nerves a bit by pressing your fingertips along his hairline and running back and forth through the locks with slow movements. The sensation was as pleasing for him as it was for you. Whatever conditioner he used, it left a soft tingling feeling in your fingertips as you worked through the silk-like strands.

You almost regretted taking your hands out and grabbed the scissors. This time, you set straight to work, taking the length of his hair into account, which, when pulled back like it was, reached a little higher than his mid back. The faint glow of hair beads in the fire light set upon the dresser reminded you he had taken his braids out.

Biting your lip in concentration, you slowly snipped the scissors horizontally, watching as pieces, no more than a centimeter in length, tumbled to the ground. You heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Don’t move your head,” you muttered absentmindedly as you continued your work. You were determined not to ruin the hairstyle he already had by cutting some parts shorter than others. The room was silent save for the sound of both of you breathing and the snip sound of the scissors.

A loud banging on the door caused both of you to jump, startled. Thorin’s head swirled to the side so quickly you barely had time to react. You let out a yelp of surprise and jumped back, clutching the scissors to your chest as if you were afraid to hold them even an inch from yourself.

“Thorin! King Bard is here to discuss the preparations of the feast with you,” you heard Dwalin shout from outside the room, although you barely processed his words as you stared in fear at the hair, searching for any sign of a mistake or a ruined piece.

“Tell him I will be there shortly,” Thorin replied as your heart hammered a million miles per second. He looked back and settled into the chair as he took in your wide eyes and startled pose.

“What’s the matter?” he asked before he put two and two together.

_Don’t move your head._

He cursed. “Don’t tell me that you-,” he began as he started to rise from the chair. You hurried forward.

“No! No, no it’s alright,” you put a hand on his arm to prevent him from rising. “False alarm. I didn’t cut it wrong, it looks fine.”

Still not convinced by your tone, Thorin stood up straight and looked over his shoulder into the mirror, seemingly pleased and relieved as he saw his hair was kept in good condition. Only those with a trained eye would notice the small edges had been trimmed but it felt much better.

He turned to look at you again and you realized you were still clutching the scissors as well as his arm. He gingerly took the dangerous item out of your hands and set it down upon the chair. A large hand came up to grasp the one still resting near his elbow and he took it in his palm and pressed a soft kiss on your knuckles.

You blushed, the softness of his lips reminding you of his silken locks, hair you wanted to comb, to braid, to explore, to grip tightly with your hands and pull him closer, to press those lips to your own and everywhere else.

Realizing the profanity of your thoughts with the King in your very presence and in his own chambers, you quickly pulled your hand back as he smiled gently at you.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he nodded, and you were glad he wasn’t angry for almost shearing half of his hair off. You smiled weakly, your eyes drowning in his own.

What he did next startled you greatly, more than the surprising knocking from Dwalin. His hand trailed up your own arm, making you shiver at the feather-light touch and reached around to cup your neck. Your heart began beating fast as he gently ran his hand through your own hair, massaging your scalp a little bit and running his thumb along your hairline.

“Perhaps I can return the favour,” he murmured with a tone that sounded a bit suggestive in your ear while your mind was conjuring up the most inappropriate meanings of that very sentence.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” you blurted out. “My hair and head are quite alright, you really don’t have to.”

He chuckled lowly at your hasty reply. “I insist,” he continued.

How could you refuse such a seductive offer? You felt dizzy and drunk as you lamely nodded in response.

“O-okay.”

Taking you by surprise for definitely not the last time that evening, he leaned forward to press a kiss to your cheek, the bristles of his beard scratching delightfully at your skin, his words a husky promise that breathed hot over your cheek.

“Until then.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for stopping by <3


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